


This Little Game

by summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Prompt Fill, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27199558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: It started innocent enough. Aziraphale liked giving him compliments. He couldn't know what those compliments did to Crowley. What they meant. How he gathered each one like another precious coin for his dragon’s hoard.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 746
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	This Little Game

**Author's Note:**

> october's fill for "praise kink, including kneeling"
> 
> please give the terrible french moment here a pass because aziraphale is canonically terrible at french

It started innocent enough. Aziraphale liked giving him compliments. He couldn't _know_ what those compliments did to Crowley. What they meant. How he gathered each one like another precious coin for his dragon’s hoard.

Crowley reasoned (rather reasonably) that friends gave each other compliments all the time. And yes, maybe picturing the subtle twinkle of their friend's eye while they said how nice they looked or the smile on their friends face while they said how grateful they were really that Crowley had arrived right on time as he tossed off wasn’t normal. Maybe other people didn't do that. Maybe. Crowley wouldn't know. He wasn't people.

It would have been fine, brilliant in fact, Crowley’s cozy little secret, if Aziraphale hadn't cottoned on around the 18th century.

Getting him out of the Bastille because it would have been inconvenient to deal with a replacement - no other reason - and Aziraphale had gotten that blessed twinkle in his eye over crepes and said shyly, "You really are quite kind to me."

And Crowley's tongue had seized against the roof of his mouth and Aziraphale had _noticed_.

The thing was, they didn't talk about the _thing_. The late-night conversations that always seemed to linger, like neither wanted them to end. The charged touches. The heated glances that Crowley had thoroughly convinced himself he had made up in his head.

So, there was no _thing._

Until Aziraphale noticed.

He dabbed his mouth with his napkin and looked at his plate. "The fashions this century are quite over the top."

Crowley couldn't get his tongue to work. The world was tilting painfully because the segue made no sense and Aziraphale noticed, he’d obviously noticed, and the world really did owe Crowley a couple favors and couldn’t it just open up and swallow him already— 

"They look quite nice on you," Aziraphale said. His eyes snapped to Crowley’s and his sunglasses didn’t do a sodding thing because he knew his face revealed every emotion he’d ever felt in his fucking existence. "My French is poor, but I think the phrase is _c’est belle_."

Crowley forgot himself and his fork bent in his hand.

The conversation moved on but when Crowley returned home, he shoved his hand in his trousers and heard Aziraphale’s voice say, terrible French forgotten, meaning preserved:

_Beautiful._

* * *

It went on like that. Decided that whatever rules said they couldn't be anything more than friends apparently did not extend to compliments and Aziraphale _loved_ giving him compliments.

It wasn't even purposeful sometimes. Crowley would give him his hand to help him out of a carriage and Aziraphale would thank him and say _how kind of you_. But he would also bring chocolates to a particular bookshop opening and Aziraphale would eat them and lavish praise on each chocolate, praise that was meant so obviously for Crowley that his prick was hard the entire time Aziraphale ate. It didn't help that Aziraphale’s gaze kept dropping to his trousers and he kept saying things like "Oh, that's very good," as he sucked another chocolate between his lips.

And then they didn't speak for 80 years and the game, or whatever it was, ended.

Aziraphale could say whatever he liked (in a bombed-out church, in a darkened car) and it could still thrill Crowley, but it wasn't...they weren't the same. Crowley didn't want this game of halves where Aziraphale acted as if they were something to each other only to pull away at the next moment. 

* * *

Maybe he shouldn't have lost his temper with Aziraphale in the convent-turned-paintball-course but Aziraphale _knew_ what his sodding compliments did, and they were busy, and the world was ending and Crowley was _stressed_.

But the world didn't end, thank somebody and, afterwards, collapsed on Crowley's couch, they shared a bottle of wine and Aziraphale said, "I'm very proud of you."

Crowley grimaced. "Can we not do this today?"

"What on earth do you mean?"

Crowley slammed the bottle down on the coffee table and turned to face him. "I mean that I don't feel like playing your little game of compliments. I _mean_ that I’m fucking tired."

Aziraphale sat forward, a small frown on his face. A face Crowley knew better than his own, loved beyond reason, beyond doubt. But he was so fucking tired. 

"Maybe I want to say nice things to you."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Give me a week and maybe we can get back to it."

"We might not be here in a week."

"Then you'd think you might be able to do a bit more than skirt around whatever this is,'' Crowley said with a harsh gesture between them. 

Aziraphale seized his flapping hands and said, harsher than Crowley ever expected, "Let me be nice to you."

Crowley's heart leapt into his mouth and he realized he was shaking. Had he been shaking this whole time? 

Then Aziraphale kissed him and shaking was the least of his worries, he was shattering, pieces of himself scattering along every surface as Aziraphale whispered, "You are always so good to me. So kind to me even when it's hard for you. Don’t you want to be good for me a little longer?"

Crowley's only answer was to seize Aziraphale’s lapels and kiss him back, messy and unpracticed, years of want and unfortunate celibacy making Crowley's kissing experience only theoretical.

Aziraphale drew back before it got out of hand and asked, "Could you take off your glasses? I'd love to see your eyes."

Breathing harder than he would have liked to admit, he drew off his glasses. Aziraphale took them and set them on the coffee table. 

"They really are the loveliest color. So unique," Aziraphale said softly before drawing him back into another kiss that felt like it went on forever.

Aziraphale’s hands slid into his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders and tossing it aside. Crowley had trouble following the movements of his hands, drunk as he was on these little sipping kisses, and before he was fully aware of it, he was shirtless and Aziraphale was pulling him into his lap.

"Do you think I haven’t noticed," Aziraphale said as he kissed Crowley's neck, "how much do you do for me?"

Crowley shivered and clutched at Aziraphale’s shirt. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. He’d pictured it. Of course, he’d pictured fucking his enemy (alright, love of his existence) and he’d always wanted to take Aziraphale apart. Make it good for him. Make it perfect. He'd read a lot of books and watched a lot of films preparing for the moment when the tension finally cracked. Not once had he considered the possibility that he'd end up shaking in Aziraphale’s lap while Aziraphale pet his back and kissed his chest and whispered sweet words.

"You took care of me, Crowley, took care of us, can I take care of you tonight?"

Aziraphale leaned back and they looked at each other and Crowley couldn't do a bloody thing but nod in response.

Crowley didn't know what he expected but it wasn't Aziraphale to push him back and up and into a standing position, only to fall to his knees at Crowley's feet, fully dressed and press hot, open mouthed kisses to the ridges of Crowley's hip bones. His fingers worked over Crowley's zipper, the barest pressure on Crowley's aching prick and it was good, but it was wrong because Crowley was supposed to be on his knees for Aziraphale.

"Angel," he tried to say as Aziraphale drew him from his jeans. The heat of his hand was enough to make his toes curl, not to speak of the whisper of his breath ghosting over the tip.

"You don't," he choked. He tried again. "I'm supposed to take care of you."

Aziraphale kissed the trail of hair on his belly before looking up at him with wide eyes, and said, "Let me do this, love."

Crowley made a horrible, punched out noise but Aziraphale just pressed sucking kisses over his pelvis, murmuring, "Beautiful boy," which, more than anything else, threatened Crowley's ability to maintain control. 

When Aziraphale finally took him into his mouth, Crowley sank his hands into his hair and groaned his name. The sight of him on his knees, eyes closed like he was savoring Crowley, made him want to cry or maybe scream or perhaps both. His chest felt too tight, his body torn between pleasure and joy.

Aziraphale pulled off far too soon and kissed up his chest and then they were kissing again, far filthier than before, and Aziraphale was undoing his own trousers and pulling Crowley until he was back in Aziraphale lap, back pressed to Aziraphale’s front. He could feel Aziraphale, hard against the small of his back as the angel pet his stomach and asked, "I want to make love to you like this."

He keened and Aziraphale spread Crowley's legs, hooking his knees over his thighs, so he could cup his balls with one hand and slip miraculously slick fingers behind them.

He'd done this to himself of course, always thinking of Aziraphale but he'd never had Aziraphale pressed against his back, the velvet of his waistcoat a delicious texture against his spine, the heat of his palm against his prick more than he could bear.

"Angel, fuck, I won’t last."

Aziraphale kissed his shoulder and scissored his fingers. Crowley squirmed at the sudden stretch and pushed back against Aziraphale’s belly. 

"Please," he begged, tossing his head back on Aziraphale’s shoulder and then Aziraphale’s hands were gone and his legs were closing, slipping between Aziraphale’s spread knees so Aziraphale could push into him, a painful, wonderful pressure.

"Oh love, you feel amazing," Aziraphale said with a harsh gasp, wrapping his arms around Crowley's front before sliding them to his hips. Crowley's skin tingled. 

The hands on his hips tightened and lifted him up before bringing him back down. The skid of Aziraphale trousers on the back of his thighs was driving him wild, the soft welcome of the velvet of his waistcoat as Aziraphale fucked him, moving him in his lap.

Aziraphale let out a low grunt of effort that made Crowley's stomach swoop. He gasped as Aziraphale planted his feet and began to thrust up into him, one hand drifting from his hip to grip Crowley's dripping length. 

"You're so perfect," he said, making Crowley moan. "Gorgeous. Wonderful. Kind to me. Always so kind to me."

Crowley came all over his hand, pleasure tumbling out of him all at once. 

Aziraphale thrust up into him three more times and groaned through his own release, gathering Crowley against his chest and whispering into the back of his neck, "I want to make you as happy as you make me."

"Fuck, you’ve always...you’ve always made me happy."

Aziraphale lifted him out of his lap and laid him out on the couch, blanketing his body so they could kiss. The mess on Crowley's stomach smeared all over Aziraphale’s trousers and waistcoat and he didn't even mention it. Fussy Aziraphale not even complaining about Crowley getting spunk on his perfect waistcoat. That was what brought tears to the corners of Crowley's eyes.

_I would always know it was there._

"No more games, Crowley," Aziraphale said when they finally parted, lips swollen from kissing, corporations sore in new ways. "I swear it. We will get through this."

Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s back. "We will.”


End file.
